Friday, December 3, 2010


So I just came up with this theory about Medusa that I want to share.

As much as I’d like to believe that there was once a half-snake lady with little snakes for hair that roamed around Ancient Greece and turned people into stone with her evil gaze, I know that it is fairly unlikely. Knowing that most legends and myths have their root in reality, I posit this theory:
Medusa was this Greek washerwoman that lived near a major marketplace, like, right off the main road or dry creek bed or whatever they traveled on back then – the main thoroughfare. You had to pass her place to get to the market and buy your hummus. And Medusa didn’t have any kind of snake-oriented portions of her anatomy. Maybe she had crazy hair. It doesn’t matter.
What Medusa really is, is a chatty broad. Like, the chick at work that you hope you don’t run into on your way to the bathroom because she’s going to go on and on and on about her cat with the gimpy leg and her mother coming into town and her new diet and the uncomfortable new shoes she’s wearing and how she takes them off under her desk because nobody can see that anyway; and there’s a good chance you’re going to wet your pants trying to be polite and praying that, Dear God, she has to stop soon or I’m seriously going to whip it out and just pee on her uncomfortable shoes.
So the real Medusa - the original – was a talker like that. And the simple Greek folk on their way to the market would hurry past Medusa’s place, praying to Zeus or Poseidon or Testiclese or whoever (maybe all of them) that that lady wouldn’t be out doing the wash today. But then they’d see her, standing there hanging clothes. And they’d think, “Oh my Gods. Please don’t let her notice me…”
But of course she would. And the poor toga-wearing schmucks would try not to make eye contact, because if you did Medusa would start the talking about her goat with the hairballs and her nephew that got sacrificed to Hephaestus the other day and how cold it’s been lately, I wonder when that Helios will start taking his time again?
And they’d be stuck. Stuck listening to batty old Medusa, rooted to the spot like stone.

Until next time, stay creepy